


she is incoherent

by belindarimbi13



Series: this shell has stories to tell [24]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Night thoughts, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belindarimbi13/pseuds/belindarimbi13





	she is incoherent

> I trained myself to believe that I'm nothing but (special) ordinary. I trained myself so good that sometimes my (speciality) ordinariness is the only I identify with. I'm Gemini and I fit each point in weekly horoscope. I did not eat Brussel sprouts tho, it's the least food I enjoy. And fishes are my enemies but I tell them to stay in my sandwich I never eat. And they were quite right about my tight allowance, those people on the magazine. I'm that typical. Check my birth year, my blood type, my MBTI test result. I'm that typical. There is nothing (ordinary) special about me. I can be found among thousands, among millions. And yet.  
I'm deemed to be (the same) different. People judge me for my choice. It's good, but not good. People criticize me for my thoughts. It's brilliant, but not brilliant.  
So I'm a star.  
That deemed to fall.  
But nobody wishes on falling star anymore, when they know it was just asteroid.  
I'm an asteroid people try to make a constellation from.  
Asteroid (or is it meteorite?) burned in the atmosphere I named society demand.  
Carved with regret, forged with failure.  
Failure comes from dead hopes and dead dreams.  
I'm dead.  
I trained myself to believe that I'm nothing but (graveyard) garden. Trees grow, flowers bloom, grass green grass green grass—butterflies and bees.  
But in the (graveyard) garden, I'm a (gravestone) bench.  
People sit on me and think they have opinions upon me.  
Am I rock or wood?  
Cemented expectations.  
Plastered suggestions.  
I take critics from stranger and think that they define me.  
I dismiss compliments and think that they want something from me.  
They take and they take and they take so often that I don't believe they give.  
I give and I give and I give and I give (up for things that I shouldn't).  
So I'm graveyard, and gravestone, and garden, and bench, and star, and asteroid.  
I'm a galaxy, and Venus, and earth, and Pluto, and blackhole.  
I'm a rock, and peeble, and asphalt, and dry leaves, and rotten apple.  
I'm not ordinary enough and I'm not special enough.  
I'm balanced uncertainty.  
Written thoughts upon grey paper.  
I'm unfinished sonata.  
I lost my voice and I broke my fingers.  
I learn to live with music but I can't bear to listen the screech.  
I try to see the lights but I'm blind.  
It's nonsense.  
Jumbled.  
Strangled.  
Poetry.  
Gifted is my nonexistent middle name.  
But I have been married with talentless for a while.  
I'm a ghost even to my own body,  
that my mind can't even comprehend.  
I trained myself to believe that I'm nothing but special (ordinary). I trained myself so good that sometimes my speciality (ordinariness) is the only I identify with.

—b, 14/09/19, she is incoherent.


End file.
